Smother
by kanayaboulevard
Summary: All his life, Dirk has loved Jake English. But when he makes the mistake of sleeping with him, their relationship is in pieces, and Dirk is going to do everything he can to try and fix it. ((critiques are always appreciated! Rating might be getting bumped up later))


Perhaps you don't love him.

Perhaps you simply love the way he speaks, with an air of formality yet the abundance of a child-and the way he walks, too, always a certain bounce in his step, and the way his two front teeth protrude from his upper lip to rest on his lower, and the adorably dorky look it causes whenever he's grinning. And you can bet he grins a lot.

Perhaps you simply love his agility, his skill, and his strength, even if you could take him down in a fight any day. You love the way his dark hair is always flopping into his eyes, and oh, _Jesus Christ_, his eyes-they're round and as green as a clouded jungle, the heaven you've always wished to live in in contrast with your urban surroundings. They are truly mesmerizing. You'd take a dip in those eyes any day.

And as you feel the creaky mattress groan under his weight when he sits up, see his back muscles bunch together as he's stretching, you know they've been stained by your touch. You can see your fingerprints trailing the outlines of his muscles, and when you close your eyes you see your lips pressing against his back.

Perhaps you don't love him. But when he dragged you into your bed, murmuring drunk promises into your ear, you couldn't possibly say no. And now, your entire brain is screaming at you: no, no, oh, God, _no_. Your eyes shut as you sense him turning around, attempting to feign sleep. You can feel those eyes lingering on you.

And perhaps you do love him. It wouldn't surprise you if you did. You can't remember a time when you weren't thinking about him, a time when your thoughts weren't constantly clouded by the one and only Jake English.

The mattress lets out another groan, and then suddenly it feels lighter, and by the way you can hear him pad across the tile you know he's gotten up. You allow your eyes to open. It is bright outside, but your shutters cut the sunlight pooling from your window into slits. It's a cruel aesthetic.

You spend a minute staring at the ceiling. His scent is still beside you. He is still imprinted in your mattress. You let the familiar scents of cedar and foreign spices and sweat and the thin yet warm tang you'd only develop from years inside a jungle (which he did spend) float around you. When you close your eyes to blink suddenly you are submerged into a pool of last night's memories and oh my God his hand is on your thigh and the ghost of his lips are on your neck, and his words are slurred as hell as he talks about how much he loves you, how he always did. When you attempt to push him away he starts to cry, and you know you can't see him cry, this boy's tears will break you.

When you open your arms he doesn't hesitate before sliding into them, melting into your calloused touch, his forehead on your shoulder and the tips of his eyelashes tickling your skin. You'd die if you loved him. You'd die if you didn't.

You open your eyes again and wish for the hundredth time that you didn't sleep with the heart-stoppingly charming Jake English, your best friend, your life-long crush. You wish that he'd simply passed out on your couch and that when you head downstairs to greet him making coffee in his underwear, you could tease him for being "so fucking wasted" and have him slip you a grin and a mug. But you can't. When you go downstairs you know he'll be fully clothed, and he'll be staring into his mug as if it held the answers to all his questions, yours laying untouched on the counter. And you know that when he looks up your eyes will lock with his, and no apologies will be made. You both know you'll never speak of last night. His eyes will whisper sorry, and his mouth will remain closed, and he'll return to his coffee, his eyelids shading the upper half of his eyes as he goes back to staring into his mug.

You toss the thin blankets aside. Your body is practically drenched in sweat. You grab a towel and close the bathroom door behind you, the decision of locking the door popping into your head, but you decide against it.

The shower knobs squeak as you turn them. A moment later, the water begins to rush, and the familiar sound of water drops spattering the shower tile and running down the drain comforts you. You step in, sliding the glass door of the shower shut behind you. The icy drops pierce your skin, but when you look down you're not bleeding. The discomfort slowly transforms into a state of serenity. You go numb to the effects of the water as it continues to batter your skin. You press your forehead to the wall, close your eyes-you could stay like this forever. And you have. Your excruciatingly long showers have become par for the course of your day.

You shower for a long time before you become aware of someone knocking on the shower door, but you know who it is. After a moment, you don't hear the door open, so you twist one of the knobs, turning the water off. The cool liquid ceases to flow against your skin. The uncomfortable warmth of reality hits you square in the chest like the bastard it is. Goosebumps explode on your arms. You're fucking _cold_. "What?" You call out, half-hoping a response won't come. It does. "Hey, when you're done, I need to shower too." His voice seems to be void of emotion, yet you take it like a blow to the head. He's basically telling you to hurry the fuck up.

You comply.

"Yeah," you respond absently, and slide the glass door of the shower box open, grabbing your towel and wrapping it around your waist. You secure it, and then open the door yourself, not bothering to look at him as you step out. You don't think you can. "Go ahead," you reassure him. He already has a towel anyways. You don't have to look up to know that he nods, and then he steps in, closing the door behind him-you hear the lock turn.

The exchange was unusually cold. You didn't expect it to be anything more.

Last night's clothes are still haunted with his scent, mixed with yours. You briefly consider throwing them out, but instead, you just bundle them up and toss them aside. This isn't a problem you're gonna deal with right now. Instead, you slip on your boxers, your jeans, your tank top. See? You're done.

The living room is quiet, but the sound of running water echoes throughout the rooms. You can't help but notice the emptiness of your apartment. And when he left? What then? Having him here is a dance of averted gazes and bare, emotionless sentences. And then there was last night, a blade of a reminder that seemed to go straight through your heart, a wire that bound you both together and dug into your skin, hurting the pair of you, only you both pretended it didn't.

You hear the water shut off. Now it _really _feels empty. There's the opening and closing of a door, and you realize you forgot to give him changing clothes, but it doesn't seem to matter because a few minutes later Jake English steps into the room in last night's clothes and wet hair and he looks so gorgeous your heart stops. You don't look at him, you won't look at him, you're not looking at him as you walk to the cabinet and pull out two mugs and set your coffee pot to brew. You're not looking at him even as he sidles up to you, his hands working in sync with yours, taking cream from the fridge and sugar from the cabinets. English never liked his coffee black.

When he reaches across you to take one of the mugs, you are aware of your close proximity. Neither of you speak. Your eyes are still down as the coffee pot makes some sort of ding that does nothing but raise the tension that lays in the air like a thick, suffocating blanket. You walk away and when the feeling of his presence beside you is gone you instantly miss it, even though he's just four feet away from you. You're cursing yourself again as you pour the coffee, and your mind is so wrapped in the task you don't realize the coffee is dripping until it meets your pale, pale skin.

"Fuck!" you whisper, although you manage not to drop your mug or your pot. Fucking hell, this coffee is hot. You set it down, suck the drop of liquid from your hand, relishing the bitterness that blooms on your tongue afterwards.

English doesn't ask if you're okay or not, and that makes you feel better for some reason. There is more silence as he pours himself a mug, mercifully not spilling a single drop, and stirs in his various creams and spices. "You're ruining it," The words push them out of your mouth involuntarily. It shakes you. You're never fully in control of yourself when English is around. You hate the fact that this is so.

Instead, he raises his eyebrows and you need to remind yourself that he isn't adorable, he isn't perfect, he isn't everything you've ever wanted, and his charming personality is just his nature. "Am I?" His eyes are the definition of innocence. They flit down to stare into his mug, the creamy brown liquid resembling the shade of his tanned skin. His eyelashes are dark and long, and a few, lone freckles spatter his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

Jake English is unnaturally beautiful.

His voice brings you out of your stupor. "How so?" His voice is not low, or sarcastic, or cool. It is normal. This is Jake. Just Jake. For a minute, you let yourself believe that it's so, and that _this _is normal. That there is nothing wrong. You let yourself shrug. "It's not good for you. Black coffee has more caffeine and less calories." As if you gave two shits about calories-but you don't say anything.

"Black coffee tastes like a donkey's ass," Jake counters. You shrug again.

"Whatever. I'm just weak little English. I'll never live up to Strider name," he says, rolling his eyes, but there is no menace in his tone. The joke thaws some of the pressure, and you notice, and he notices you notice. Your heart beats harder, not faster. Your longing for the past, which would have been counted as yesterday, before English started drinking, before you both got home, is ridiculous.

However so, the next few minutes are in silence. You both bring the mugs to your lips almost in unison, unconsciously developing a pattern. It's not cold outside, but it's not hot, either. It's still too bright for your liking, and no lights are on in the kitchen. Jake doesn't object.

It isn't until half of your cup of coffee is gone when Jake speaks again, and this time, it's in a hushed voice. "Hey." And you know what words are going to come next, because you've ran this scene in your head a hundred times. _Please don't._ There is another second of silence where everything seems to pause. Even the dust floating in the beam of sunlight that shines through your blinded windows seem to come to a stand still. Then, he speaks again. "I'm sorry."

You wish he wouldn't do that. You wish that he'd just punch you in the stomach and leave already. You wish he'd actually _get angry _at you. But English is too pure for that. He's too pure for the dirty, staining touch of anger, and maybe that's why _you're_ so angry at him. Because that's all you are: anger, and a repeat of seeing him stretch flashes in your mind again. You can still see his shirtless back bearing your fingerprints. You touched him. Jake English. Beautiful, angelic, _pure _Jake English. You ruined him.

You close your eyes and inhale slowly. Whiteness blooms on your knuckles as you grip your mug handle. You already know he's going to walk over to you before he actually does, and all of a sudden oh my Jesus fucking Christ he's kissing you. It is slow. It is soft. You need to set down your mug before you drop it, and even though you don't want to ruin this impossibly perfect human being your hands are already lifting themselves to bury themselves in his soft, damp hair, because you could never settle with just a kiss. You've never wanted anyone so much in your entire life, but the fact that this person is Jake ruins it.

When he pulls away, a hollowness immediately plants itself inside your chest. But he isn't done. He presses a final kiss to your cheek and you need to cross your arms because you're in danger of pulling him back for more. You've always been so selfish.

You know Jake didn't mean to make it worse. You knew it was meant as some sort of apology, some sort of hey-you're-my-bro-and-I-only-have-platonic-feelings-for-you-even-though-I-got-drunk

-and-fucked-you-last-night-and-now-I'm-giving-you-a-platonic-romantic-kiss apology.

"So… what happened?" His voice is still quiet and you don't need further clarification to know he's talking about last night. It's the one thing you both silently swore not to talk about, yet it was all there was to talk about.

"You had too many drinks. I had to take you home. And then…" You don't finish your sentence. English doesn't say anything and you're fighting to keep your voice level. You don't want to talk about this. He seems to sense this, and he doesn't pressure you, but you feel weak. And you are. Behind your signature stony façade lay a crumbling shell of a human. There was no heart. There was no mind. There was only instinct, and then there was anger.

It wasn't like he didn't know what came next. He already knew regardless. And you knew what came next, too: the memories hit you all too clearly. You could still feel him tugging at your shirt, moaning softly into your neck, and all of a sudden your coffee makes you want to vomit, and you can't look at him anymore. Because you did exactly the same. Minutes pass.

Jake closes his eyes and it takes a moment for you realize he's shaking. Not even so. Quivering, ever so slightly, like a mouse under a cat's red glare, and even as every single part of you tells you to stop you step forward and hold out your arms. It's last night all over again, but right now all that's on your mind is helping him, even though you seem to need some help yourself.

He's tense, but he relaxes as soon as he comes in contact with you. Before you know it, you're sitting on the cold tile of the kitchen floor holding him and his face is buried in your neck and by the way he's inhaling, sharply and loudly, you know he's crying, and every time you feel his breath hitch from the sobs a piece of you withers away and dies. He's so close you can smell his hair-more memories start to wash over you, not even from last night, just from the years you've known him, and you feel like vomiting again, but all you do is hold him. You think you whisper "I miss you so much," but you can't be sure, but all of a sudden he's crying harder and the fact that you can't do anything is eating through your very existence.

And you don't want to kiss him again but then _oh _you're tilting his chin up and pressing kisses to the places where his tears have trailed down on his cheeks and he's still hiccuping and _no, _this boy is like a poison to you and you're just as much to him.

Your lips are still salty and his eyelashes are still clumped together when he finally stops crying. You're still holding him, though, but you have no complaint about this, because as you rest your head on his shoulder you think about crying, too.


End file.
